Several weeks ago, I got an e-mail asking me if I would like to see a copy of “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Good Fat, Good Carb Meals.” I would! That sounds like a great book that just might make sense of a complicated topic.

“Please send,” I tell them.

Within a week, I receive “Chemotherapy & Radiation for Dummies.” It seems odd that the book would arrive, addressed to me. I’ve never written about cancer. I set the book aside.

A few weeks later, I open a large envelope and pull out a copy of “The Idiot’s Guide to Fibromyalgia.” Exactly how this relates to my role as food writer, I do not know. But I can’t help but wonder if the arrival of these two books has something to do with my request for the “Good Fat, Good Carb” book. But I’m busy, so I set the books aside.

Two weeks later, the good fat book still has not arrived. But I receive a copy of “Women in the Bible for Dummies,” and “Writing Children’s Books for Dummies.” I can’t wait to see what arrives next. Perhaps “The Idiot’s Guide to Unwanted Mail”? Or perhaps “How to Stack Random Books for Dummies”?
– Jolene Thym

A home just isn’t the same when there are no homemade cookies in the cupboard. It’s a fact. There’s nothing better than a cookie for breakfast, lunch or dinner. And the smell of fresh-baked cookies is enough to cover a multitude of housekeeping sins.

Seriously, who could fault anything with a homebaked cookie in their hand? Now that you understand my passion for cookies, I have to confess that even though I like other people to enjoy the cookies I make, really I make them just for me.

So this weekend, I pretend that I am making cookies for my daughter and ask her what kind she would like. Molasses? Yes, she would love molasses cookies. Soft or crunchy? She wants soft. I disagree. I like crunchy cookies, never soft. I mostly follow the recipe for soft cookies in the “King Arthur Flour Cookie Companion.” The cookies turn out … soft. I try baking them longer. Soft. I totally smash some of the balls of dough, then cook them for twice as long. Success. They’re nice and hard. Not crispy, but at least crunchy.

As I sit there staring at the batch of soft cookies, wishing they are crunchy, I start looking over the cookbook. I compare the recipes to find out the differences between soft and crunchy cookies. It’s moisture, it turns out. The soft cookies have double the egg and double the molasses of the hard ones. And here’s the kicker _ they also have double the calories! That little nugget of information is all I need. From now on, no matter what other people ask for, I’m making crunchy, chewy cookies. And if they complain, I’ll just have to remind them that they have half the calories!

– Jolene Thym

I don’t know what makes me get stuck on things, but for the past six months it’s been risotto.

It started in the Spring when fava beans, skinny asparagus and fresh English peas were in peak season — I just wanted a warm, savory bed to support them. I considered mashed potatoes, but thought they’d be too gluey, and plain rice didn’t have the richness I was looking for. While I’d made risotto a few times before, I’d never been particularly obsessed with it. Until now.

Just days before my risotto experiment, I happened upon a particularly enlightening episode of Good Eats on the Food Network. Among highly scientific discussions of the nature of starch and properties of long grains and short grains, host Alton Brown had two key techniques that I’m convinced made the difference.

First, use only HOT stock. Second, he recommends NOT stirring the rice. Yep, you read it right. Instead, Brown says gently shaking the pan as the rice absorbs the hot stock is the key to a perfectly creamy texture.

All bets were off.

I heated. I gently shook (with just a few swipes across the bottom of the pot with a spoon to check when the rice needed more stock).

The result was a perfect blend of sauciness and thickness — when spooned into the center of a platter risotto should be saucy enough to spread across the surface of the plate, but not so saucy that it is like soup. The rice was tender but toothsome. The flavor was rich with chicken stock, onion and wine, with a hint of brightness thanks to a fairly copius grating of Meyer lemon zest. I was in heaven.

Since then (I think it was May) I’ve probably made risotto once a week. My boyfriend claims he would be happy if he never saw another plate of it as long as he lives.

I think he’s lying.

– Jenny Slafkosky

Most of the time, I have the opportunity to taste the things that are delivered to me to sample. Generally, it’s a rule. I taste, evaluate, then share with you what I think.

Not everyone would have the same opinion, of course, and it is common knowledge that I am a highly particular eater, expecting a whole lot more flavor and quality than most people I know. But this week, when House of Bread in Fremont turned up at the front door of our newspaper to deliver some breads for me to sample, the samples were misrouted to the kitchen. I had no inkling about a delivery until the next day.

Looking over the crumbs, the knives, and the leftovers, I determined that there must be more to the story, so I called to ask. Apparently there was quite an array, but since there wasn’t a single bite left. I can’t say if the goods were light, chewy, sweet, salty, crusty or otherwise. I can only say that they disappeared without a trace.

As I chatted with the bread store owner Kristin Clark, I learned a lot. For example, the store doesn’t just sell bread. It also sells soups, salads and sandwiches at reasonable prices. It sells a nice, strong coffee for those who need a morning jolt.

It also sells — and this is what I really love — a big fat slice of bread for just $1. That means the next time I’m hungry and passing by, all I have to do is duck in and ask what they’re slicing. If that doesn’t sound good, I can always opt for a cookie, which might be delicious, although I really can’t say.

House of Bread in Fremont, Clark says, is one of only nine franchises left. Apparently one burned down, and the New Orleans franchise is under water. The Fremont House of Bread is located in the Fremont Hub, at Mowry and Fremont Boulevard. The store is on the back side, across from Trader Joe’s and next door to Coldstone Creamery.

– Jolene Thym

This summer has overflowed with food and wine events — events designed to teach us food journalists what we need to know to write inspiring food stories. (I think that’s why they invite us, although they don’t really say it that way.)

We do learn lots, and pick up great tips for stories we write throughout the year. But we also gain unexpected insights about people who happen to be our table companions. Sometimes, random seating provides for intelligent exchanges of information, not to mention great conversation. Other times, it’s pure entertainment, start to finish.

Last month, I had a great time watching a city-meets-country exchange between a small-town reporter and a city girl press relations person dressed in pink. Seated together by chance, they were forced to converse. As the country gal joked about hay and farming and the latest murders in town, the woman in pink sat up straight and pursed her lips. When the country girl slapped the city girl’s back, you could almost see the hair on her neck stand on end. But she smiled. She’s a professional, you see. And she-in-pink most certainly didn’t slap any backs or tell any off-color jokes or laugh too loud. And just so you know, she did not touch the bulb of her wine glass, as did others at the table. Enough of that.

And now I have news. In the process of covering the up-down-and-arounds of the always fun and interesting Grape to Glass event in the Russian River Valley in August, I unwittingly became a future (projected) millionaire in a a mysterious dot-com that has something to do with paper lunch boxes. Exactly what am I talking about? I have no idea, but there’s a gal from Texas who might, since it springs entirely from her (wine-soaked?) imagination. The launch of this business, she promises, is just weeks away. And the best part? She’s already doing publicity for me, telling scads of people throughout wine country that I am headed for lunchbox royalty. Again, you ask. What am I talking about? I still don’t know, and I’ve misplaced her business card.
– Jolene Thym

In the fickle food world, where restaurants are made and broken by the media, turnover is faster than a speeding bullet and the word “BAM!” has become a culinary term it’s oddly comforting to know that things like meat-themed area rugs and bacon bandages exist.

At least it is for me.

It’s a simple reminder that food doesn’t have to be serious. That chefs, though they dedicate their lives to the art and purpose of feeding people, need not be treated as gods. Just as very dedicated and talented people — like the rest of humanity.

– Jenny Slafkosky

Olive Garden is a restaurant favorite of so many people that I hesitate to poke fun. OK. I’m done hesitating. The Italian eatery decided to get to the bottom of a very serious, complex issue facing Americans. How exactly, they wanted to know, do people eat their spaghetti? Do they cut or do they twirl the noodles? Spoon? No spoon? Splatter? No splatter? Convinced that this is a burning question that needs an answer, they call a whole bunch of people and find out that 77 percent of all U.S. adults twirl pasta onto their fork. Now that’s a number that we should file in our brains, a number that will serve to enrich our lives and our pasta-eating futures, to be sure. Just so I don’t waste all of your time, I will share a little something about pasta that I think IS interesting. Italians typically don’t cut their long-noodle pasta, nor do they break it as they put it into the pan because it is considered to be bad luck. That nugget comes from the kitchen of a foodie and cooking teacher from Florence.
–Jolene Thym

It has been weeks, but I can still remember the perfect chocolate bundt cake in miniature that was set before me at the Mariani company’s 100th anniversary party. It was deliciously rich, covered in fudge sauce and stuffed with dried cranberries, blueberries and cherries. I ate every bite. Of course the cake wasn’t meant to be the highlight of the evening, a posh reception and dinner for 350 inside the Mariani warehouse headquarters in Vacaville. The funny thing is that my invitation to the dinner came without details. I expected it to be a casual affair, sprinkled with dried fruit, of course. Instead, as I drove into the lot behind the warehouse, I noticed that the other guests were seriously dressed. There wasn’t a single T-shirt in the crowd. It took about two minutes for me and my companion to realize we had underdressed. We left, redressed and returned to the party — late.
Inside, we were greeted warmly and encouraged to enjoy a 3-D taste tour of the Mariani company, which was based in Silicon Valley until 2004. We snacked on prunes as we read about how the Yugoslavian immigrants arrived in the Bay Area and started selling dried fruit from its farm in Cupertino.
We nibbled cherries and apricots as we enjoyed pictures of how the business grew and evolved from a small family business to a massive dried fruit empire that sells 125 millions of pounds of fruit in 22 countries. We plucked dried pears and nectarines out of an old truckbed that was piled high with dried fruit. We laughed and thought twice about our tasting when we saw a new mom plunk her baby girl into the fruit for a picture.
Before we could work our way through the exhibit, the ceremony began — with a local priest blessing the company, the family and the feast to be served. When the large population of Catholics made signs of the cross at the close of the blessing, I felt like I was at Mariani’s house for dinner. As the evening unfolded, I learned that the Vacaville plant is one of five Mariani plants in California. The company also has one in Thailand that serves its growing Asian market. I got a chance to meet Mark Mariani and other family members who still oversee the business. And I also got an earful about drying, re-hydrating, packaging, and selling dried fruit. Years from now, I might not remember when the stand-up bag was developed and by whom, but from now on, every time I open a package of Mariani dried fruit, I will picture the family’s farm in Silicon Valley and the big, happy Mariani family that still runs the business.
–Jolene Thym

We like hot, peppery, lively foods; foods so packed with flavor it takes half the meal to figure out all the spices that are in them. We enjoy simple, clean, fresh flavors too, but sometimes we just crave the warm, comforting, satisfying spices of Indian food at Sansar on Main Street in Pleasanton, directly across from The Rose Hotel. What confuses us every time we go to the little restaurant is how few Pleasantonians share our penchant for spice. Last night, for example, downtown Pleasanton was crowded with people. Restaurants were bustling. But we shared the Sansar dining room with only two people. We ordered up our feast, trying new and different dishes as we always do. Except for the fried appetizers that we don’t particularly care for, we love everything. Our table is crowded with copper kettles of rich, buttery tikka masala, fragrant chicken vindaloo, mashed eggplant with peas, spicy mixed vegetables, a spicy hot dal, and aromatic rice dotted with roasted cumin seeds. We tear bits of the perfectly cooked naan and eat with our fingers and our forks, enjoying every bite. To cool our mouths, we enjoy a perfectly balanced yogurt-based mango lassi. As we finish our meal, we can’t help but wonder why more people don’t eat there. It’s a beautiful place, elegantly set with tableware fit for a king. Water cups are copper, as are all of the serving pieces. The decor is pleasant and clean, the service is kind, helpful and quick. The restaurant serves wine, too. Dishes are $8.95 to $12.95, which is not expensive for the area. We aren’t sure, but we think Pleasanton must suffer from spice-fright. It could be the wine, the water, the weather. We’re not sure, but we ARE sure that they do not deserve Sansar.
_ Jolene Thym

The other day I had some family over for a simple barbecue. I marinated a tri-tip, made panzanella with fresh heirloom tomatoes, garlic-rubbed bread and homemade pesto dressing, and assembled a fruit salad of strawberries and blueberries.

At the last minute I pulled out a cup of lemon verbena-infused simple syrup I had made for a fruit salad the week before. I didn’t really think anyone would want to drizzle any on the fruit. It’s the kind of thing that’s a little too different for these folks. But it ended up stealing the show.

My sister-in-law got up several times to get more fruit so she could eat more syrup. She even used her fingers to scoop up the last of the syrup on her plate. And this is a woman who doesn’t even really like blueberries because of the way they squish in her mouth (it’s one of her many, many bizarre food hang-ups).

Then the other day I found out my 2-year-old daughter, who, just a few weeks ago, showed an aversion to peaches and nectarines, will gorge on those exact fruits when they’re drizzled with the syrup.

Sure, any kid likes sweet stuff and the syrup is definitely sweet (it’s just a cup of sugar and a cup of water simmered together until the sugar melts), but the lemon verbena leaves I steeped in the syrup for a few minutes added distinctly floral, herbal, lemony notes that I didn’t think would go over well with some adults, let alone a toddler.

Now I’m wondering if I can add lemon verbena to spinach or broccoli.

By the way, lemon verbena is supremely easy to grow. Go to a good nursery, get a little plant and stick it in a sunny spot where your sprinklers will hit it. In no time it will become a big, leafy lime-green bush. And though it’ll die back to sticks in the winter, it’ll sprout a whole new batch of beautiful, slender, deliciously fragrant leaves next spring.

You can use the leaves to season anything that goes well with the flavor of lemon, like fish or pasta. And you can make tea with it, put the leaves in a glass of ice water or infuse it in syrup like I did and use it in fruit salads, iced tea, drizzled on poundcake … the list goes on.

–Danielle Centoni